


Rise

by ambersagen



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Animal Death, Blood and Gore, Happy Ending, M/M, Temporary Character Death, Undead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:40:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24162985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambersagen/pseuds/ambersagen
Summary: There's a good reason Roach thirsts for the blood of her enemies, and it's not because she is a Witcher's horse.(summary added because I guess I didn't post one with the fic originally???)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 137





	Rise

It’s horrible. A scene of carnage that leaves Jaskier swallowing rapidly against nausea even as his eyes sting and his hands shake with sorrow. 

Poor Roach. Equine sturdiness and Witcher training hadn’t been enough to save the poor beast from a bloody end at the claws of a rabid Warg pack. Gods, there was so much blood, and the stink of it all, oh the poor horse....

Oh Roach....

“Well fuck.”

Geralt looked upset, a pinch of pain between his brows. But impossibly, he looked much more like when Jaskier had caught that bad cold a few months back and was a right whining mess. Frustrated. Nothing at all like as devastated as Jaskier felt right now at the loss of the dear beast. She must have been so scared. 

“Fuck,” Geralt repeated, and Jaskier gave a shocked shout of protest as he stepped forward into the sea of blood and entrails and began pulling packs free from the still warm corpse.

The Witcher turned and gave him a distracted glare. “Go set up camp. Back by the river will do for now. Get a fire going before dusk sets in.”

“What about...shouldn’t we bury her or—or something?” Jaskier inquired, voice shaking with distress. 

Geralt only grunted, freeing another pack and causing the dead meat of the flank to twitch with some last store of energy, jerking and left with nowhere to go, no heart to pump or crotchety horse mind to power. 

Jaskier stumbled away, unable to bear it. Geralt, poor man, must have been in shock. Or perhaps channeling all his Witcher might into turning his blood to ice so as not to break down at the loss of his dear friend. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier whispered, catching himself on the trunk of a tree and retching a few times uselessly into the dirt. He had to get a grip. Geralt would need him, he would need someone to be strong and reliable now. He had to get a grip, for Geralt. 

It took far longer than usual to make camp. His legs betrayed him, refusing to stay stable as he stumbled and shook his way through gathering firewood with all the grace of a drunk ten cups to the wind. He couldn’t bring himself to look when Geralt dragged their packs over to rest beside the fire and he said nothing, asking no questions when the Witcher disappeared back into the forest.

Eventually, as night began to fall, he forced himself to go through the bags. He had tears running down his cheeks by the time he had fished their sleeping rolls out and finished setting up camp for the night, but he muddled through. His face was dry again by the time Geralt returned with a pair of rabbits and set himself beside the fire.

Neither of them said a word as they set about cooking. Jaskier didn’t know if he would be able to stomach eating, he was quite sure in fact that he could not. But it gave the Witcher something to do, no doubt the familiar actions of preparing the meal provided a distraction. For Jaskier the sight of it was just another terrible reminder of their failure. 

Yet he watched Geralt skin and gut the animals, unable to look away. Maybe it was penenece.

The pile of rabbit was much...untidier than usual. Jaskier tried not to flinch as the Witcher pulled meat from bones, leaving them in a glistening white and red pile next to the pot Jaskier had silently set up by the fire. In went meat into the pot, down went bone into the stack, only haphazardly stripped of their dinner protein. 

At some point Jaskier roused himself to throw a ball of stew spices into the pot along with the remains of a water flask, but other than that they moved little and said less. Each left alone with their thoughts as darkness settled in around them.

Eventually the stew was simmering away over the fire, and there was nothing left to occupy them. 

Jaskier watched Geralt, but Geralt watched the stars, something intense in his gaze as he looked unblinking up at the night’s sky. Jaskier wondered if horses had souls, if perhaps Geralt was searching for a sign that their companion had moved on to a better realm. 

“Come on,” Geralt said gruffly, eyes still on the sky as he stood. He bundled up the handkerchief of bones and gestured to the bard. “Grab a stick or something and get a torch going.”

“A torch going? And where are we going?” Jaskier asked, barely stopping himself from jumping up in alarm. Did the man sense something? Were they in danger? Perhaps some of the Warg pack had returned, absent from the earlier fight and lured in by the scent of blood.

“Moon’s about right,” Geralt muttered, paying him no attention. “Don’t want to miss it tonight and have to wait another day.”

Unnerved, Jaskier made the torch, holding his tongue in uncommon silence as he followed the Witcher back into the forest. The light barely illuminated the way as they made their way back towards the growing stink of death. It took them little time at all, unfortunately.

He stood, shivering in the dim and flickering light of the torch as Geralt knelt, his pants no doubt soaking up mud and blood and all sorts of disgusting humors. But the man paid it no mind, delicately placing the handkerchief and its morbid assortment of bones and what looked like a lock of hair, possibly from poor Roach herself, on the ground. Just as Jaskier was starting to believe this was some sort of grisly Witcher funeral rite Geralt pulled out a dagger and gestured for him. 

“Umm, I don’t think—“ Jaskier stumbled over his words, not quite willing to deny his obviously unstable companion just now and risk upsetting him further. But Garalt just made an impatient gesture. 

“Jaskier, the torch.”

“Oh! Yes, right.” He said, passing the branch and stepping back quickly. 

Geralt murmured something, a language Jaskier was unfamiliar with and could barely make out anyway, before lighting a corner of the handkerchief on fire with the tip of the torch. 

Jaskier watched in befuddlement, feeling drained and heartsick just standing in this place, when suddenly Geralt tossed the torch at the body before them.

Jaskier gave a shriek of terror as the entire thing burst into sudden and roaring flames. 

A wave of heat rolled over him like a slap in the face and he stumbled, falling backwards onto his ass as he scrambled to block out the searing light of the flames and protect his face from the heat.

He cowered there, spots dancing behind his eyelids and body stinging from the fall for what couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, but felt like an age. Then, just as suddenly as the fire had come, it was gone.

The silence left in the wake of whatever magic Geralt had cast hung like a wet blanket over them. Jaskier was still gasping, trying to work up the courage to open his eyes again when it broke. 

A whinny rang through the forest, demanding and shockingly loud.

His eyes flew open.

“Roach,” he croaked out as he sat there, a dumb lump of confusion and shock. 

The horse—was she even really a horse? What on earth was going on here—she shook herself, giving a horsey snort as unimpressed as ever she had been post resurrection? Reanimation? She stood, saddleless and blood free before them. Alive and looking just the same as she always did. 

Geralt reached out, startling Jaskier into jumping like a spooked hare as the bard had completely forgotten his friend’s presence. 

Roach bit him.

“Fucker,” the Witcher grumbled, snatching back his now bleeding hand with a hiss of breath escaping lips that were smiling, ever so slightly.

“Umm, Geralt.” Jaskier pushed himself up onto shaking legs, pointing an accusing finger at both horse and master. “Geralt, and I mean this with all the love in the world, really. But, what. The fuck. Was all that??!”

Jaskier watched, fully aware and not giving two fucks that his mouth was still hanging open in shock, as Geralt looked at the horse with—was that guilt in his expression? Because it could not _possibly_ be that the big strong scary Witcher was standing before him looking like a young lad caught sneaking sweets before supper.

“Just a little bit of necromancy,” he finally growled out, turning his back to the bard and patting the horse’s flank, which Roach allowed with only a few warning twitches of her ears that still showed her great displeasure with the whole situation.

“Necromancy.” Jaskier said flatly.

“Just a little.” Geralt repeated, still refusing to look at him.

“Geralt, my dear Witcher. Are you telling me, are you _really_ telling me your horse has been a zombie this whole time. That for years we’ve been riding around on one of the Dark Undead, a flesh eating reanimated corpse. A—dare I say it, ZOMBIE HORSE?” 

“To be fair, she liked eating fingers before the spell.” Geralt muttered petulantly, before leading the horse back towards camp. 

“Geralt! You are not walking away from this talk so easily! A zombie! Come back here you cowardly Witcher!”


End file.
